


Not forgotten

by soy_em



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/pseuds/soy_em
Summary: Sam doesn't really like water any more.





	Not forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> For the Wincest Writing Challenge June 2017.   
> Prompt: water ballons
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger warning: PTSD and flashbacks/panic attacks

There are kids playing outside the motel, despite the late hour. They’re shouting and laughing, having a great time, and it takes Dean back to days when he and Sam had been so carefree; alone and irresponsible in a motel forecourt with nothing else to worry about other than having fun. Those days had been few and far between, to be honest; particularly for Dean, who’d often spent them worrying about Sam; how he was going to feed Sam, whether the school was going to pick up on the fact that he and Sam were alone, worrying about how he was going to clothe Sam, and above everything else always worrying about whether their Dad was safe.

Those days are long gone now, of course; he feeds and clothes Sam through hustling pool, illicit poker games and credit card fraud, which is all much more under his control. He worries about Sam in other ways, of course, but usually if Sam is in danger Dean is just in front of him, literally shielding his little brother with his body.

That hadn’t been true recently. Sam had been taken from him, stolen by a bitch with a bad accent, and Dean hasn’t quite gotten over the shock of losing him or the joy of getting him back. Sam still hasn’t talked about what really happened in that basement, and from experience, Dean knows he probably won’t unless there’s a very specific reason to do so. Nevertheless, Dean has picked up on tiny things; the way Sam doesn’t seem to like the rain now, the way he flinches away from heat, the fact that he always asks Dean to light the matches when they burn bodies, the fact that his showers are as short he can make them. Dean might not be well educated or as smart as Sam, but he can put two and two together well enough to draw some pretty clear indicators that the answer is four. 

Compulsively, he looks away from where he is cleaning his guns to check on Sam, but his brother is just where he left him; at the table in the corner, hunched over his laptop as usual. Dean’s chest relaxes and he goes back to listening to the kids outside with half his brain; reminiscing internally about summers with Sammy. 

***

The kids are there again when they get back to the motel the next day. Their investigations have been a bust, and they’re leaning towards there being no monster in this town, just a ridiculous run of bad luck. Time to move on. 

Dean notes, idly, that the kids seem to be shrieking at an even higher intensity than they were the previous evening; in the back of his brain he catalogues that it’s either going to be a long night in the room or that it might be one where he tries to convince Sam to head out to a bar until after little-kid bedtime. 

What he doesn’t really clock is why the screaming is so intense, at least not until something splashes wet against him. _Water balloons,_ he thinks with a grin, ready to turn around and give the kids hell for assaulting a _Federal Agent, did you know that I could take you downtown for this?_ because there is something just so satisfying about lightly tormenting children sometimes. But that plan all goes to hell when the next water balloon hits Sam on the back of the head.

He can’t describe it, exactly, but it’s like Sam shuts down as the water cascades down over his face. His body stiffens imperceptibly, only visible to Dean because he’s watched his little brother like a hawk for so many years. Sam fumbles with the room key, fingers turned to jelly, and he slams at the door once, frustrated.

Dean doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but he knows its _something._ He moves forwards, quickly, until he’s pressed against Sam’s back and wraps his hand around his brother’s. Where he’d thought they were trembling, Sam’s fingers are actually locked in position, reflecting the tension radiating through his body. After a couple of seconds of fumbling, Dean’s able to get the door open and they almost tumble through, because Sam’s reactions are all off. 

Before he can do anything other than save himself from ending up flat on his face, Sam has moved across the room, putting himself in the corner that’s furthest from both the door to the bathroom and the main entrance. He sinks to the floor and buries his head in his hands, first; but then starts to brush his hands through his hair, scrubbing wildly at his wet curls. His movements are frantic, and it’s obvious he’s not fully aware of what he’s doing.

Dean moves fast then. He might not know what’s going on but Sam is in distress and a distressed Sam is Dean’s responsibility. He’s on his knees in front of Sam within seconds, reaching up to try and gently slow his brother’s hands. Sam won’t be stopped, though; he’s almost pulling his hair out with his intensity. 

“Sammy,” Dean says softly. “Sammy.” He ducks his head down, trying to make eye contact, but Sam’s got his eyes screwed closed. Unsure what to do for the best, Dean pulls Sam close against him, wrapping one arm tightly around Sam and trying to use the other to slow the movements of his brother’s hands.

“Breathe with me, Sam,” he says softly, instinctively, because Sam’s chest is heaving. It doesn’t work; Sam is clearly becoming more upset and starting to fight against Dean’s hold. 

Belatedly, Dean realises that he should try a different tactic. Grabbing Sam’s left hand, he presses his thumb to the scar there, hard. 

Sam’s eyes fly open, and lock on Dean’s. “There you are, Sammy. Look at me, just keep looking at me,” he says low and intent. Sam’s eyelids flutter for a moment, but then he focuses on Dean. “Breathe with me, Sammy,” Dean repeats. “In, out. In, out.” 

Sam’s hand closes around Dean’s thumb, tight enough to cut off the circulation, but Dean doesn’t flinch. “In, out, Sammy.”

It takes a while, but Sam’s breathing finally syncs with his own. Sam’s muscles start to relax, and his body melts into Dean’s. Eventually, Sam breaks eye contact and burrows his face into the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder. He inhales, audibly, back shaking; and then Dean feels the scald of hot tears soaking through his t-shirt.

Making sure to keep hold of Sam, he shifts himself from his knees, which are going to give him hell for this in the morning, and onto his ass, legs spread wide. He manhandles Sam a little until Sam is curled up against Dean’s chest, the way they always used to sit as kids. Sam’s still hiding his face, and still clutching Dean’s thumb; so Dean strokes his other hand up and down Sam’s back soothingly. He’d normally wind his hand into Sam’s hair and pet his little brother until he calmed if something like this happened, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good idea right now.

“Wanna talk about what that was, Sammy,” he asks after a while, hand still smoothing across Sam’s back.

Sam shakes his head as vehemently as he can against Dean’s shoulders. Dean sighs.

“Ok Sammy, not just right now,” he says. “But we’ll have to talk about why you don’t like water any more at some point soon, ok?”

Sam’s head jerks up, eyes wide and question obvious.

“I know you, little brother. I can tell when something’s bothering you, even if I don’t know what it is.”

Sam’s eyes flicker down, and he goes back to where he was, one hand fisted in Dean’s t-shirt and the other tight around Dean’s thumb.

Dean leans back against the wall and settles in to wait until Sam is ready to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [Tumblr](https://soy-em.tumblr.com/).


End file.
